


The Unfathomable Depths

by sparklyscorpion



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe, Depression, Disfigurement, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Masks, Post-World War I, WWI AU, ww1 au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyscorpion/pseuds/sparklyscorpion
Summary: The widowed Christine de Chagny spends her days creating masks for scarred soldiers of the Great War and hiding her broken heart behind a mask of her own. But when she meets Erik Guérin, a bitter veteran who is as deeply wounded as she is, she begins to wonder if two shattered souls might be able to come together to make something beautiful. E/C, past R/C, post-WWI AU, WIP
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	1. The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> An E/C story? Yeah, I know, I'm surprised too. This is a post-WWI AU with NO influenza pandemic because I just can't handle talking about pandemics right now.
> 
> This is a WIP and I've not finished it just yet. I have a few chapters written, so there will be regular updates for about four weeks, but after that I'm not sure.
> 
> For Christina, because you helped me find my voice, my strength, my confidence, my SELF again. Thank you, friend, for never failing to see the best in me, even when I couldn't.

**Prologue - The Sea**

_1917_

Christine de Chagny tilted her face towards the sun's rays, closing her eyes with a contented sigh. It had been so long since she had stood on the shore, far too long…

She screamed as someone wrapped their arms around her stomach and lifted her into the air, spinning them both around until she was dizzy. "Stop scaring me," she chided her husband, laughing with him even as she slapped his shoulder.

Raoul's blue eyes twinkled with mischief as he kissed her nose. "But it's so much fun!" He ran towards the water, his feet sure and steady even over the slippery rocks, until he was ankle-deep amidst the crashing waves. Only then did he release her, allowing her to slide down his body until Christine was standing in the sea too.

"I never want today to end," Christine whispered, grinning up at Raoul. Grabbing his hand, she guided him further from the shore, until the cold water came up to her waist, the fabric of her dress swirling around her legs. "It's been perfect."

" _You're_ perfect." Raoul brushed his mouth against hers, his lips tasting of salt and lemon candy. Threading her fingers through her husband's dark blond hair, Christine pulled him closer, their bodies melting together as a lazy warmth filled her chest.

For a few blissful moments they were the only two people on this stretch of beach, the only two people in the world, everything and everyone else fading from Christine's mind as she clung to the man she loved more than life itself.

And then he was gone.

"No." Christine's eyes flew open once she realized that her arms were empty, but it was too late. She stood alone in the sea, the freezing water sending unseen currents to tug at her ankles, urging her under.

"No," she gasped again, struggling to maintain her footing, even as she saw the ship looming on the horizon. She knew that ship; she had seen it only once in real life, but it haunted her dreams with frightening regularity.

 _La Provence_ , an ocean liner that had been converted into a ship that transported troops.

 _La Provence_ , a relatively safe assignment for the heir of a distinguished family.

 _La Provence_ , a promising target for a German U-boat lurking in the waters of Greece.

 _La Provence_ , a tomb for a thousand men, including her beloved Raoul.

"Please no," she begged as she stumbled and fell, her knee slamming hard against a rock hidden from view as she was submerged beneath the water. Christine struggled to regain her footing, taking a staggering step and trying to brace herself against the increasingly violent waves that were crashing against her shivering body. " _Please_."

But there was nothing she could do except watch as an explosion enveloped the _La Provence_ in flame, the ship listing drunkenly as Christine tripped once more. "No." The sea rose higher and higher, its frigid fingers caressing her neck, her hair, until she was drowning, just as her husband had...

Christine sat up in bed with a start, her fingers clawing at her throat in sheer panic as she fought for breath. Her cheeks were damp, and for a long, disorienting moment, Christine wasn't sure if it was due to her own tears or seawater.

Within a minute or two Christine was aware that she had been ensnared in a horrible dream, just like so many other times before. She wasn't anywhere near the sea and hadn't been for over two years, not since Raoul's last furlough from the Navy.

 _Raoul_ …

A half-stifled sob escaped from her lips as she remembered that he was dead, as her heart broke anew for the man who had loved the ocean and had ultimately been claimed by it. Christine wanted to wallow in her misery, to spend countless hours sobbing into her pillows like she had so often done after the news of his death had reached her, to weep until her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen shut.

But she couldn't allow herself to do that once more, no matter how tempting. She couldn't lose herself again. Georges needed her; she must remember that.

Blindly swiping her foot across the rug until her toes found her slippers, she managed to slide them on before shuffling quietly into the room that adjoined hers.

Her son's hands were clutching his stuffed dog tightly even in sleep, and Christine smiled down at him before her fingers stroked his soft blond hair. Georges was her little miracle, conceived during Raoul's final furlough, a piece of her husband that the sea and the war had not managed to steal from her. He was one of the two reasons why she was still alive, why she had survived those desolate months following Raoul's death.

The other reason was her art.

Closing the door as softly as she could, Christine crept through the hallway and down the back stairs until she was standing outside, deeply inhaling the cold air that promised that rain would soon be on its way. She could see her studio in the distance, its vague outline comforting and solid as it guarded the far gardens.

The stone cottage had once belonged to the caretaker of the grounds, back when servants still lived on the estate. Now Philippe employed a couple of people who lived in the nearby city of Rouen who returned to their own homes at night, and the cottage had been long abandoned when Christine had joined the de Chagnys at their country estate after Raoul's death. She'd seen its promise almost immediately, even though her brother-in-law had tried his best to convince her to take one of the rooms in the great house as her studio instead.

It lacked electricity and the roof leaked a little when it rained particularly hard, but the forgotten cottage was a second home to her. It was there that Christine could lose herself in her painting, where she could leave Georges with his aunt or uncle and just focus on her own feelings, depressing as they often were, for a while. There, in that two room building, Christine could shape the world into what she wanted it to be and forget for a few hours how the world truly was.

In that cottage, Christine was allowed to immerse herself in whatever fantasy her mind created. Raoul could still be alive. The war could be far away. Georges could meet his father. Her own papa could hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right. The only limit was her imagination.

 _If only the rest of life worked that way_ , Christine thought to herself as she stared out at the darkness. _If only it was all that simple_.


	2. The Project

**Chapter One - The Project** **  
**_February 1919_

Her sisters-in-law were plotting something. 

Christine could tell as soon as she joined them for tea that Victorine and Andrée were hatching some sort of plan. And considering how their conversation had come to an abrupt halt as soon as Christine had stepped onto the patio, that plan involved her in some way.

She wondered if it was too late to plead a headache, if she could still retreat inside and curl up with Georges as he took his afternoon nap. Or perhaps she could sequester herself in her studio and pretend to paint. Maybe she might be fortunate and trip on her way to their table, break her leg, and be rushed to the hospital. 

A worried glance passed between the pair as Christine sat down across from them. Victorine nudged a platter of biscuits in Christine’s direction, an overly kind smile fixed on her face. “Have a couple, dear.”

That broken leg was looking more and more appealing by the minute.

Christine obeyed without comment, taking two and transferring them onto the small plate in front of her. Her stomach churned at the thought of eating them, and she idly wondered what would happen if she tried to force them down. Perhaps she would choke to death and be spared from their machinations. 

_Georges_ , she reminded herself when the idea became a bit too alluring. _Georges needs his mother. You can’t forget that, not again, not for a second._

Christine sighed and took a sip of tea.

It really wasn’t fair of her to be thinking like this about her sisters-in-law, anyway. She knew that she was beyond fortunate. Raoul’s family had been nothing but good to her once they had adjusted to the fact that their beloved brother had married someone so far beneath his station. Philippe had even opened up his country estate to her when living in Paris had become impossible.

“It’s a lovely day today, isn’t it? It doesn’t feel like February.” Andrée’s voice was pitched higher than it normally was, as if she was forcing herself to inject some cheer into her words. 

Maybe Philippe was tired of her sequesting herself at his expense and had asked his sisters to evict her in as polite a manner as possible now that the war was over. The thought of returning to the flat that she and Raoul had shared far too briefly made Christine’s heart clench. She couldn’t go back to the memories there, the ghosts that lingered in every room. To be reminded every day that she had once been so happy and was now so empty...no, she wouldn’t be able to do it. 

“How is your painting coming along, Christine?” Andrée asked after a few moments of awkward silence. 

“Fine.” It was a lie, one of the many that had passed her lips since the armistice had been declared in November. Christine knew that she should be happy. The bloodshed was finally over, and it seemed that everyone was celebrating the war’s end - everyone but her. The news of the war’s conclusion had thrown her into a deep depression, one that she was still mired in months later. What did she care that the war was finished? It had taken her husband from her, and every mention of soldiers returning home was a knife in her chest, reminding her once again that for her the war would never truly be over, because Raoul would never come back.

The two sisters exchanged another look before Andrée cleared her throat delicately. “Have you started any new projects?”

Christine shook her head and focused on the napkin in her lap, her vision blurring as tears filled her eyes. Her last attempt had been an utter disaster. She’d wanted to paint Raoul coming home after the truce had been declared, but when she had started on his eyebrows, Christine had realized that she’d forgotten the exact shade of his hair. She’d ended up shredding the canvas in a fit of rage and despair, and she’d been completely uninspired since. 

“We have an idea,” Victorine ventured after a couple of minutes. “Well, it’s Philippe’s idea, but he wanted us to be the ones to broach the subject with you.” 

It took every bit of Christine’s strength to not jump up from the table and rush into the house. “Does he want me to leave and go back to Paris? Is that it?”

“Of course not!” Victorine seemed to be offended by the mere suggestion. “We love you and Georges, and you know that you’re both welcome to stay with us forever. We’re just...we’re worried, Christine. You haven’t been yourself lately.” She reached for Christine’s arm, giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so sad now, even more than usual. I don’t even remember the last time I saw you genuinely smile.” 

“We just want you to be happy.” Andrée’s voice was so full of empathy that Christine could hardly bear to listen to her.

“I’m fine,” Christine protested feebly, even though it was another lie. _Nothing will ever be fine again_ . _Not without him here._

“You’re not.” Victorine’s outburst was so sharp and unexpected that Christine glanced up at her, startled, a couple of hot tears sliding down the side of her face. “You’re not fine, Christine. Don’t bother trying to tell me otherwise, because I won’t believe you. You might be able to fool Andrée because she doesn’t see you as often as I do, but you won’t be able to fool me.”

“She’s _not_ fooling me,” Andrée muttered beneath her breath. “Even I can see that you’re struggling, Christine.” 

“You haven’t stepped foot inside of your studio at all since November, not once. Don’t think Philippe and I haven’t noticed. That tells me all I need to know about how you’re feeling.” Victorine patted her on the shoulder, graciously ignoring Christine’s wet cheeks. “We thought...that is, we’re hoping that if you had a project that captured your interest, you might be less preoccupied with your thoughts.”

And Victorine, of all people, knew just how dark those thoughts could run.

“There’s a coppersmith in Rouen who is running an advertisement in the newspaper.” Reaching beneath her napkin, Andrée withdrew a small clipping and smoothed it with her fingers. “He lost three of his sons in the war, and he’s decided to start making masks for those who were grievously wounded on the battlefield. He just needs an artist to paint them, to bring them to life.” 

“And you’re so good at capturing faces, Christine. I’ve told you that so many times. Wouldn’t it bring you some joy to help those poor brave men with your skills?” Victorine leaned towards her, pushing aside the plate of cookies that separated them. “It wouldn’t pay anything, but you hardly need to concern yourself with money. And it would truly do so much good for those soldiers.”

Christine wanted to say no. She’d lived in the country with Philippe and Victorine for nearly three years now, six kilometers from Rouen, and yet she’d visited the city less than ten times in total. She had everything she needed here - her son, her studio, her in-laws - and when she required more art supplies, Philippe ordered whatever she asked him to buy without comment. Why did she need to venture out into the world when _her_ world had died near Greece?

“I don’t...” Christine had heard stories of men who had returned from the front with horrible wounds, whose faces had been devastated by shrapnel and bullets and poisons. Some were mangled so badly that even the finest surgeons couldn’t repair them. But how could she possibly help anyone when she could barely summon the energy to get out of bed most days now? “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a flat out refusal, and Victorine seemed to be encouraged by her indecision. “I was just reading an article about a man who was tragically disfigured in battle. His children were terrified of him until he had a mask made by a sculptor in England. The reporter said that the poor man was sobbing as he talked about how the mask changed his life.” 

Christine thought of Georges then, imagining how frightened he might be in the same situation. He was her weak point, and Victorine well knew it. 

But still, the idea of being around those men, wounded but alive… How could she possibly stomach it? Her mind would be overwhelmed, questioning why these soldiers had been spared when her own had not been. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, _it wasn’t fair._ “I’m not sure,” she hedged in a trembling voice. “I’m not sure that I can do it.”

“I know that you can. The only question is whether you will. You know when I first met you that I didn’t want you to marry my brother. I thought you only wanted his money, that you had convinced this gullible, rather spoiled boy to fall in love with you. But _no one_ can question how deeply you loved him, Christine. I’m sorry I doubted you for a moment.” Victorine slipped out of her chair and knelt before her, taking Christine’s hands in her own. “You’re so talented, so smart. I can’t let you throw all of that away. Raoul wouldn’t want you to do that. You _know_ he wouldn’t.” Tears were slipping from Victorine’s eyes now, and Christine was helpless to keep her own at bay any longer.

Her sister-in-law pulled her close, rocking her like she was a small child. “I love you,” Victorine whispered harshly in her ear. “I love you, and I can’t watch you do this anymore. Let me help you, darling - just tell me how.” 

Andrée enveloped the both of them in her arms, and for several minutes, they all wept for what they had lost, for the empty place at the dinner table, for the infectious laugh they would never hear again, for the charming young man whom they had all adored. He had died too soon, far too soon, and he had taken pieces of their hearts with him into that watery tomb. 

When her sisters-in-law finally released her, Christine felt strangely empty, as if her stores of grief had been depleted, at least for a while, leaving nothing at all behind. The only thing she felt now was hollow. 

Once, a long time ago, her life had been filled with colors, with passions, with a full range of emotions. That was the girl whom Raoul had fallen in love with, and that was the girl who had returned his love with equal fervor. Where had she gone? Christine missed those days - not just because Raoul had been in them, but because _she_ had been, too. Simple afternoons spent on the shore painting had filled her soul with such joy, such wonder, and now she couldn’t even lift a brush to the canvas.

“Let me think about it.” It was all she could offer right now, and even that felt like it might be too much.

* * *

Christine did think about it. She thought about it that evening, when she sat still and silent at the dinner table, forgetting to eat until Philippe asked her if she was feeling ill. That simple question sent Georges into near hysterics. Her little boy was always worried about her, far more than someone his age should, and Christine picked up her fork and took exactly eight bites of tasteless sawdust to appease him. 

She thought about it that night, after she had read Georges a bedtime story, assured him once more that she felt fine, and tucked him into bed. He’d wept again, inconsolable until Christine had joined him and curled her body around his. Even then he had fought sleep for a good hour, turning every so often to gaze at her with wide blue eyes, as if he needed to assure himself that she was still there. 

She thought about it after she retired to her own room, darkness nibbling at the edge of her mind. Was she a good mother? Christine was trying her very best, but some days she wondered if her best wasn’t enough. Georges would be three years old this summer, and yet he fretted over her like an old man at times. Would he be better off without her? He was still young; he might forget her entirely if she...

_No. Don’t think about such things._

She thought about it as she found her slippers, wrapped a warm robe around herself, and padded downstairs. The night air had a bite to it, and the wet grass soaked through to her feet as she walked towards the stone cottage. It took her several minutes to bring herself to put the key into the door and pull it open.

She thought about it as she sat down on the dusty sofa, as she peered at all of the blank and half-painted canvases that surrounded her. 

She thought about it as she stood and wandered towards the chest of drawers where she stored her brushes. They were all wrapped in newspaper, just as she had left them months ago, waiting for her to pick them up once more.

Could she?

It _would_ be an interesting project, and it might even give her some direction and purpose to her life. At the very least, it would keep her skills sharp for when her desire to paint returned. 

_If_ it returned.

And even if it didn’t….her skills might be a bit rusty, but surely she could finish some of those masks. Perhaps doing good would make her feel good. And then maybe Victorine would stop treating her as if she might break, and Philippe would stop looking at her with those grave eyes, and Georges would be less troubled over her. 

She could paint the masks - and she could craft one of her own. It wouldn’t be made of copper, but spun of lies. Christine could pretend to be happy, pretend to feel better now that she was putting her art to use once more, pretend to feel anything except grief. She would save her tears for her bedroom at night, muffled by a pillow. She could learn how to paste on a smile that looked genuine, to laugh and make it sound unforced. 

And if this worked - well, perhaps she should have chosen to make her living on a stage.


	3. The First Mask

**Chapter Two - The First Mask**

“Your brother-in-law tells me that you are quite a talented artist.” The coppersmith, Monsieur Desmarais, gestured for Christine to sit down at the small table that was tucked away in a corner of his workroom. “He also said that I’d be quite lucky to have you.” 

Christine lowered her eyes and fussed with her skirt, feeling her cheeks grow hot with the unexpected praise. She’d known that Philippe had stopped by the shop to ask about a schedule for painting the masks, but she’d had no idea until now that he had bothered to brag about her. “I brought a few examples of my work with me so you can judge for yourself,” she replied after a couple seconds, reaching for her portfolio.

Desmarais flipped through several of her portraits, pausing on one in particular. “Your husband as a young boy?” 

Christine shook her head, even as her heart lurched in her chest. “No, my son. Our son.”

The coppersmith made a soft tutting sound. “Your son resembles his father a great deal, Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny.” 

_ Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny,  _ Raoul had whispered as he’d cupped her cheek in front of the church where they had married.  _ Tell me this is the happiest day of your life, because it’s the happiest of mine. _

“Please,” she murmured, trying to school her features into a bland, pleasant look that gave no hint that she was close to tears. “There’s no need to use my title. I find it rather ridiculous that I even have one.” 

“Of course, Madame.” There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by the faint shuffling of papers as he placed the portraits onto the scarred wooden surface between them. “I knew your husband, although he was just a young boy when I saw him last. He was a good, friendly lad, at least from what I recall. I’m sorry for your loss.”

She’d been a widow for almost three years now and she still had no idea how to reply when people offered her their sympathies. “Thank you,” she said at last, wishing with every part of her soul that she was back in the safe cocoon of the de Chagny country estate. What had she been thinking, coming here? She wasn’t well; she couldn’t give anything of herself because she was empty, empty, empty…

_ Georges. Remember him. You can’t go down this path again, Christine.  _

The coppersmith offered her a small smile when she finally met his gaze, the gentle smile of a person who understood her grief because he had been dealt a devastating blow of his own.  _ Three sons stolen by the war _ , she thought to herself, shivering as she glanced at the portrait of Georges on the table.  _ How can he possibly stand it? _ The urge to flee Rouen intensified, except this time it was not the darkness that called to her. She wanted to hug her son tight to her chest and promise him that she would do better,  _ be  _ better, for him. 

“Well, then. Your brother-in-law wasn’t exaggerating about your talents, Madame. Shall I fetch the first mask?” M. Desmarais’ chair scraped loudly against the floor after Christine nodded. 

Smiling at her once more before retreating into the darker recesses of the room, he returned a few moments later with a delicate appearing piece of copper cradled in his hands. “Your canvas, Madame.”

Taking it from him, Christine was surprised at how flimsy it felt, how light. The metal was so thin that it warmed easily from her touch. It was a nose and the broad expanse of a cheek, she realized after a couple of seconds, and she found herself wondering about the poor man who would someday wear it. 

“It’ll be held in place by a pair of spectacles,” M. Desmarais informed her as he watched her explore his handiwork with her fingertips. “I’ll attach those later once you’ve finished painting it - that is, if you choose to join my project.” 

“What made you think of doing this?” The material wouldn’t be easy to work with, but as Christine’s fingers curled around one edge, she pictured how it would feel to put her brush to the copper.

“The war has taken a lot from me. It’s taken a lot from all of us, too much. This is a way for me to give back.” The coppersmith sounded much older all of the sudden, as if he had aged a decade in the past five minutes. “I read a newspaper article about a sculptor in England who crafts copper masks for men who had been wounded so badly that surgeons couldn’t help them. I’m no artist, but I knew that I could do something similar if I had someone to help with the painting.”

“I think this is a piece of art.” Christine held it up to the light and examined it from another angle. “And I’m sure the man you made it for will agree.” 

One corner of M. Desmarais’ mouth turned upwards. “His name is Auguste Martin, and he was my oldest son’s best friend. They went away to war together.” He withdrew a photograph from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table so Christine could see it. 

A smiling young man stared back at her, his brown hair unruly even though it was obvious that he had made an effort to slick it back. Christine’s heart contracted as she stared at his nose and his cheek; they were both gone now, and she wondered if his smile had disappeared with them.

“He’s a good boy. He’s got a young lady that he loves and wants to marry. He asked…” The coppersmith paused to clear his throat, and Christine didn’t miss the glint of tears in his eyes. “He asked me if I could make him something so they could have a proper photograph taken at their wedding.” 

How happy she and Raoul had been on their own wedding day, all smiles and laughter even though his family had been less than thrilled with his choice of bride. How fortunate she was to have those pictures in her possession, to be able to look back on them and to remember the joy that had been theirs for such a short amount of time, to have them to show to Georges once he was older and began to ask questions about where his father was.

Happiness was a stranger to her now, but maybe it didn’t have to be for Auguste Martin and his intended. She could take the mask that she held in her trembling hands and bring it to life, bring M. Martin to life. She could give him a taste of joy after losing so much; all she had to do was put her brushes to the copper. 

Could she do it?

_ I know that you can. The only question is whether you will. _

It was a choice,  _ her  _ choice, and a simple one to make. “When can I meet him?”

Desmarais’s face relaxed. “I told him that I couldn’t guarantee that you’d agree, but he was so hopeful that he stopped by this morning before you came. He’s waiting in the back room right now.”

_ Right now.  _ She could start painting his mask  _ right now _ . Perhaps it would make her feel better to contribute something to society, to help bring a little more happiness into the world. Perhaps it wouldn’t. She supposed it didn’t really matter. The war had robbed so much from this M. Martin - his best friend, his face. He deserved to be deliriously happy on his wedding day, and if she could help accomplish that in some small way...well, who was she to say no?

* * *

  
“How did it go today?” Philippe asked as Christine slid into the backseat to sit beside him. He’d been reading a newspaper when the driver had opened the car door for her, but he made quick work of folding it up and turning his full attention onto her. 

“It went well.” Christine offered the driver a small smile as he shut the door behind her, thankful that the ride back to the estate would be a short one. She truly liked her brother-in-law, but Philippe could still be intimidating, and she was already drained from today. 

“Are you going to work with him?” His blue eyes were the exact shade of Raoul’s and Georges’, and Christine bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood as he turned them on her. Sometimes it hurt too much to look at him for any length of time, to be reminded that Raoul would never grow old, that her husband would never have the chance to acquire the wisps of gray that Philippe had at his temples. 

“I’ve already started.” Christine glanced out the window, making herself focus on the blur of trees whizzing past the car. “M. Desmarais had a young man come into his shop today, a friend of his son’s. I painted it a bit, but I didn’t have all of the materials I needed to finish. I'm going to work on it tonight.”

“That’s wonderful, Christine.” Philippe was quiet for a minute or two, but Christine knew him well enough by now to realize that he wasn’t finished, just contemplating his next words. 

Christine thought about that thin piece of copper she had boxed up and brought with her, how it had been shaped with such care by M. Desmarais. It looked so flimsy, so breakable, but it had held its shape as she had painted it, strong in spite of its delicacy. She had been strong once - strong enough to stand up to the de Chagnys, who had been opposed to her marriage to Raoul. Perhaps, someday, she could be strong again, at least for Georges’ sake, if only she could figure out how. 

Philippe cleared his throat with an abrupt noise, causing her to jump, and Christine clamped her hand down protectively on the box in her lap. “Christine, if there is ever anything I can do to make you or Georges happier, you only need to tell me.”

Turning away from the window, Christie made herself look at her brother-in-law. It was strange, so very strange, to see who had remained at her side as the world had burned to ash. People she had once believed to be her friends had drifted away without a word, and help had come from some of the most unexpected sources. Grief and loss had forged bonds between her and the de Chagnys that never would have existed otherwise. “I know,” she whispered around the lump that had formed in her throat. “Thank you for being so kind to me.” 

“You’re family, the both of you. You may regret it some days, but you’ll never be rid of our meddling now.” There was a twinkle in his eyes, an attempt at levity after broaching such a heavy topic, and Christine forced herself to smile. 

The car pulled through the gates, and Philippe chuckled as he glanced over Christine’s shoulder. “I think we’ve been spotted, Sister.” 

A little streak of blue was speeding down the steps and towards the car, Victorine fast on his heels, and Christine felt her smile soften into something more genuine as she swung open the door before the vehicle came to a full stop. “Did you miss me, dearest?” 

“Mama!” Georges launched himself into her arms and wriggled with unrestrained happiness. “Missed you.”

“Oooh, one of these days you’re going to be too heavy for me to carry, darling.” Christine pressed her lips against his blond head a couple of times, hoping that that day was far into the future. “I missed you too, sweetheart. Were you good for Aunt Victorine today?” 

Georges nodded solemnly. “Yes Mama. Played animals.” 

“I was a frog, so I spent a few hours hunched over hopping on all fours.” Victorine made an exaggerated display of stretching her back before turning towards the house. “How was your day today? You’ll have to tell me everything.”

And Christine had to admit, just to herself, that it felt good to have something to discuss.


End file.
